


Road to Sanctuary

by ChaoticFayth



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5952943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticFayth/pseuds/ChaoticFayth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quincy to Sanctuary, from the eyes of everyone's favorite mechanic. Otherwise known as how to hold a group of misfits together without falling apart yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quincy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the fact that I just stumbled upon got to and cleared Quincy for the first time on one of my FO4 characters. I might be hiding out in Sturges’ garage as I write this. And listening to the entire collection of Mumford & Sons on Spotify. Maybe.
> 
> Spoilers: Minor Minutemen-related spoilers for Fallout 4.

All’s quiet after the call goes out. It’s a waiting game, for either raiders to fall upon them or the Minutemen to stop this all before it even starts. Hell, he’s not even sure _if_  anything is going to happen at all, but damned if he isn’t going to listen to Mama Murphy this time. If nothing else he’d rather look like a fool and keep this little family safe than watch as his world crumbles around him. More than it already has, that is. 

He really needs to patch the garage roof one of these days.

It’s a saving grace that he’s got not one but _two_  suits of power armor to tinker with in the meanwhile. Maybe he can get them working before the Minutemen get there, that’ll be a nice backup plan. For now, all he’s successful in is getting himself covered in more oil than he started with--and a couple of bruised nails from not watching parts that he _knows_  full well pinch. With the radio on and all the parts he could need to fix the damned thing, Sturges could’ve stayed in there forever. It takes a lot to come between a handyman and his pet projects.

In fact, he damn near jumps out of his skin when Fenton all but appears next to him. A solid clang of skull against power armor station rings out through the garage-converted-church in Sturges surprise. He’s rubbing a gloved hand over the back of his head a he glances up at his friend. “Evenin’ to you, too, Fenton.” 

“You got those piles of junk working yet, big guy?” Today, he smells like whiskey. The fact that Sturges notices that over the quantity of motor oil and lubricant that he’s dealt with all day means that his friend must have racked up quite the tab in the time since they called the Minutemen. Not that he can blame the guy, they all deal with nerves in their own way.   


“One of ‘em.” With a spare hand he gestures to the suit parked by the window. That one hadn’t been so stubborn as the one so keen on pinching him. At this rate, he’d be lucky to ever get it working. “Check back in a couple of days and we’ll see.”  


“Don’t think we have that long.” Sturges looks over again to find his friend staring at said fixed suit. More than staring--transfixed, really. If whiskey makes a suit of armor that interesting to someone not a mechanic, he might have to have a swig or two himself. Though, he is a bit concerned that Fenton might hurl on the garage floor. Not that it’d be the first time.  


“Never know. Could be that Mama’s vision--” But he’s cut short, finally following Fenton’s gaze not to the suit, but _past_  it. To familiar shapes sprinting past his garage and to the wall that protects their little town. With a muttered curse he’s moving to turn off his radio, and it’s then that he hears the warning siren from the main barricade. Damn him and his concentration. Thank god he’s got _one_  suit finished, at least. “Stay here, you.” 

Fenton’s in no shape to fight, and they both know it. He just nods and blearily climbs the few stairs to Sturges’ bed, plopping himself down on the edge of it. Hell, Sturges himself isn’t keen on being in the middle of a firefight, but as the only one actually _suited_  for it, he’s got little choice. The power armor closes around him and he’s checking his gages before he’s out the door, grabbing his bolt rifle on the way. Best he’s got, and it’ll have to do. At the very least, the security of the armor enclosed around him gives some comfort as he charges out the garage door to take point at Quincy’s back gate.   


* * *

The first bullet to hit the armor’s plating pulls a gasp from him. It’s been a while since he’s been in the thick of it, with or without armor, and Sturges is not entirely prepared. None of them are. Even those of them that had heeded Mama’s warnings didn’t know exactly what they were in for--after all, _Gunners_  are a hell of a lot more organized than just raiders or mutants. Sturges takes less to shooting and more to being a moving shield for those on the barricade that can shoot worth a damn. Even passes his rifle off to Sloan when the other runs out of ammunition for her own.

Sturges finds the wind knocked out of him after a grenade detonates at the front of the barricade. Takes to a knee for a moment as his ears ring beneath his sealed helmet, but the shouting only seems to get louder. Which, of course, makes him worry for a concussion or something worse when Sloan suddenly appears in his view, tapping on his viewport. The shouting is apparently coming from his friend on the barricade, which is a small relief, and Sturges slowly makes it to his feet again.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it...” He’s shaking his head, muscles aching even beneath layers of metal and hydraulics. It takes a moment, but the mechanic eventually figures out what Sloan’s been shouting for the past minute or so.  


_Minutemen_.

It’s wonderfully satisfying to watch Gunners actually run away from the walls of Quincy. The grenade-lobbing female lieutenant calls a retreat over the din of gunfire and Sturges finds time to breathe as he watches the Gunners run off. He expects it to be a temporary reprieve, but it’s a relief nonetheless. 

A tug at his arm draws his attention back down to Sloan, and she nods for him to follow--which he does, of course. Might as well stick with a friend in all this chaos. By the time they reach their destination, Sturges has managed to remove his helmet and has it tucked under an arm. Minutemen and Quincy residents alike are gathering in the mayor’s home--some injured, a more weary, most relieved. Sturges lingers at the back, not to tower over all and obscure view too much, particularly with Sloan leaned against him, fiddling with the bolt rifle she’s been given.

The Minutemen are quite a sight to see. At least 5 officers in the house and several dozen others nearby. Even so, he’s not surprised to hear the telltale voice of Marcy outright complaining that this, somehow, isn’t enough to secure the town. At least 50 Minutemen and it’s _not enough_. Sloan snorts out a laugh and earns a polite nudge from Sturges for it. Not that anyone knows how many Gunners are even out there. Mayor Jackson is quick to shut down such talk, instead directing everyone’s attention to the Minuteman leader--Colonel Hollis, his name is. The fact that they attracted the attention of a Colonel gives Sturges a renewed sense of hope. 

They may live through this after all.

* * *

A few minutes of deliberation between the Mayor and the Colonel, and the four Minutemen Lieutenants split up with troops and Quincy residents alike to fortify the town. As Sturges and Sloan return to the western gate, they’re joined by a Lieutenant Preston Garvey. The man has a refreshingly kind personality, which matches Sturges own--and irritates Sloan, of course. Particularly since he seems to stick with the two of them as they carry lumber to and from the gate, talking to his newfound friend in power armor all the while. 

Two trips of carrying lumber and Sturges can feel the rotator cuffs on the armor start to creak with repeated use. It reminds him that he hasn’t had a chance to actively test this unit out since he repaired it, and he takes a moment to duck out to the garage--leaving his armor behind as he returns to reinforce the walls.

Lumber is a lot heavier when you’re not supported by hydraulics.

Sturges glasses are too smudged by sweat and grime to see by the time they’ve finished shoring up with western defenses. They’ve ended up atop his head as he stops to check his work--at least he’s near-sighted rather than far-sighted, or else they might be in trouble. Sloan passes a lit cigarette into his hands and he begins puffing on it without much thought as he kicks at section of his fortifications. Satisfied, he turns to face his friend, only to find his newfound acquaintance lingering nearby with her.

“Hey, Sturges?” Preston takes a step forward, tilting his head forward as if greeting him for the first time today--though they’ve worked on the wall together through the night already. The man’s charmingly polite with everyone and Sturges finds himself grinning at that--and how Sloan rolls her eyes so hard that he can practically feel her disapproval. At least Preston hasn’t caught on to her behavior. Yet.  


“Need somethin’, boss?” Of course, Sturges is polite in his own way. A pair, they make. Particularly in this mess of a situation. Given more time together--and not in the middle of a firefight, of course--Sturges is sure they’d be fast friends.  


“Colonel Hollis set the remaining civilians up in your uh--garage? Ms. Murphy apparently told him you wouldn’t mind.” He says with a small smile, which grows a bit as Sturges gives a small laugh.  


“Mama? Yeah, she’d know it’d be fine.” He’s trying to wipe his glasses clean on a rag that he’s pulled from one of his pockets. It’s making them worse, of course. Rag and glasses both get shoved in the front pocket of his overalls. Not that he’d need them right now, anyways.  


“We need someone to keep watch over them, since Mayor Jackson isn’t keen on leaving the Colonel alone. Think you could handle it?”   


“Sure could, boss. Not one for the front lines, myself.” Truth be told, Sturges was going to request to head back once the fortifications were finished. Much as he looks like a bare-knuckled bruiser--and he could hold his own, no doubt about that--he was frankly put off by any sort of violence. Not his style, even in this day and age.  


“Great.” Preston nods, and if Sturges didn’t know any better, he’d swear the man was relieved. Fast friends, indeed. “Here.” There’s a moment of Preston searching through his pockets before he finally pulls something from the folds of his coat. The Minuteman steps forward before Sturges gets a chance to see what it is, and watches as Preston attaches a radio--similar to but a bit more compact than the one attached to Preston’s bandolier--to the strap of the mechanic’s overalls.  


At this point, it takes all of Sturges’ concentration to not look at the very judging look he’s getting from Sloan over Preston’s shoulder. Preston gives him a smile after he’s confident that the radio is secure, patting his newfound friend on the shoulder after. “Keep that on. If things go south, I want you to gather the civilians and meet me at the Quincy Station. Okay?”

“Got it.” Echoing Preston’s motions, Sturges claps him on the shoulder in return. Though it seems to actually jostle the Minuteman a bit. Sometimes he forgets his strength. Either way, Preston just smiles as though it doesn’t bother him. And maybe it doesn’t. “Good luck out there.”  


“You, too.” As Preston moves to gather his forces behind the west barricade, Sturges manages to herd Sloan toward the garage. It’s less herding and more friendly manhandling, as she would rather stay and fight, but he convinces her that the garage should have a guard, too, and it seems to put her at ease well enough.

* * *

Two days and it’s been a stalemate the whole while. Sturges has managed to sneak out to the barricade a couple of times to bring Preston and his Minutemen rations, as they can’t defend Quincy without actual food in their bellies. Beyond that, though, he’s spent most of the time trying to get his armor in working order. Sloan’s perched on the railing at the back of the garage, watching over the civilians--and now, the living wounded who have joined them. Even the Longs’ boy, Kyle, managed to catch a bullet in the leg.

Fenton is damn near hovering around Sturges, partially to catch anything on that quiet little radio attached to the handyman’s overalls, but otherwise because his friend is, well, a wall of calm in the storm of bullets. It’s just how he’s always been, pleasant in the face of all else. At least having a useful sort constantly at his elbow makes it easy for him to have things handed to him from out of reach. 

Not that it helps--he’s about convinced these suits are a lost cause.

Sturges straightens up to ask for a blowtorch when the whole damn building shakes. Sloan pushes fallen boards to the side as she takes a headcount--they didn’t lose anyone from fallen rubble, at least. Fenton and Sturges are moving some boards from the eastern windows to see whatever the hell just caused that earth-moving event when he hears Preston over the radio. 

A call for civilian retreat. Sturges immediately leaves the window and starts gathering everyone up. The relatively healthy support the wounded--but young Kyle can’t walk at all with a leg wound like that. Shouldn’t even be moved, but they have little choice. Sturges instead gathers the kid into his arms--without so much as protest from Marcy, who’s quickly ushering Jun after the mechanic--and leads the civilians out of the garage and around to Quincy Station. 

True to his word, Preston and a little over a dozen Minutemen meet them there. One of them tries to take Kyle from him, but Sturges won’t have it, and carries the kid himself through the dilapidated train and down onto the plains. He and the Longs are right at Preston’s heel the entire time, heads down as much as they can be and moving as fast as they can manage, all things considered. They stop for the briefest moment they can manage to wait for a few stragglers and take a head-count, and it gives Sturges enough time to turn back to the town he’s called home all his life.

Only to see half the highway collapsed onto the apartment block. Gunners are spilling out onto rubble and the walkway over his garage and it’s all Sturges can do to contain his anger. There’s barely 20 Minutemen around them, not nearly as many civilians and a seriously injured boy in his arms--and Sturges wishes with all his might that he had a working suit of power armor so that he could charge back in there and take his home from those _Gunners_.

But, he doesn’t. So, he can’t. Which means he has to let go and move on with what they all have left. A gloved hand on his arm has him turning around to see Preston, to hear him suggest a plan of action. 

To Jamaica Plain, with all they have left.  
Not that it’s much.


	2. Jamaica to Lexington

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally another chapter. I’m trying to make myself fic more rather than just dumping smut drabbles into people’s inboxes, oops. This chapter was written while listening to Sarah McLaughlin’s Afterglow and Fumbling Towards Ecstacy albums, though that might be vaguely obvious in reading it.
> 
> Characters: Sturges, Preston Garvey, Mama Murphy and the other Quincy survivors. With an appearance from my own Sole Survivor in later chapters. Also, of course, mentions of other Minutemen, Gunners and Raiders.  
> Ship: Sturges/Preston Garvey  
> Spoilers: Minor Minutemen-related spoilers for Fallout 4.

For a time, the chase lets up. 

Just in the short trek between Quincy and the Plain, they’ve lost a few more civilians and Minutemen alike. It’s when they duck into yet another ruin of a church that the Gunners suddenly disperse. Maybe the ghouls are too much for them to pick through, or the buildings are too thick to track stragglers between.

Or maybe, just maybe, they determine the survivors aren’t worth it at this point.

Whatever the reason, Sturges is helping the Minutemen cover too-tall windows with boards from nearby buildings while they still have the time to do so. His shoulders creak every time he lifts his arms above his head--walking to the Plain sure seems a lot farther when you’re carrying an injured person the whole way--but he powers through it. Finds himself the only one with hands steady and strong enough to chain up the door once everyone is inside.

Everyone.

It’s a head-count that comes up far too short for Sturges’ liking. Not to mention the wounded. There’s not enough stims to go around and even with what little they have, the more serious injuries are, well, serious. Sturges tries not to think of how he’s covered in the blood of a young neighbor, or how pallid Kyle’s features were when he laid the boy down on a pew. How shallow his breathing is as his parents try their damnedest to make him comfortable. 

Instead, he makes himself busy. Bless the Minutemen for snagging guns off of anyone they managed to fend off, it gives him the chance to scrounge up ammunition from scrap. Thankfully his molds had already been in the duffle that he bugged out of Quincy with, and he goes to work melting down what he can scrounge up. 

They’ve rigged a cooking station out of cinder blocks and the metal that would be too much trouble to break down. And by ‘they’, Sturges means a hungover Fenton and a pissed-off Sloan. At least, if nothing else, Fenton knows how to keep people fed. It’s one of the few things keeping this group going, and he’s scrounging up cups and bowls from the church’s attic storage to pass to those assembled. Sure, the soup’s made of softened jerky and the vegetables that Fenton somehow always has on his person, but it’s much better than nothing. 

By the time he’s molded out all the scrap he can break down from within the church, Sturges’s hands are raw and blistered. But, they have a new supply of ammunition. That’s what matters. 

His gloves are tucked into the front of his overalls and he massages ever so gently at hands that are more calloused than anything else. Yet still he gets blisters. Still the skin is red and he waits for cracked skin to scab over. Most of the Minutemen have taken up residence on the upper level of the church--a bit of distance between themselves and the civilians that they’re struggling to protect, he thinks. Not that he can blame any of them. Admittedly Sturges himself is having a hard time even sitting in the same building as most of those he’d call his neighbors.

Particularly the Longs.

Marcy is quiet--moreso than Sturges has seen her in a long while. She slides fingers through Kyle’s hair as she tries to keep it off of his sweat-drenched forehead while Jun speaks to him, low and stuttering. Out of everyone, it’s Mama who wanders over to them. Quietly, she hands something to Marcy--Sturges initially thinks it’s a stimpak, but the purple vial attached to the syringe tells him otherwise. Much as Sturges adores the Longs and Mama alike, much as he understands that, at this point all they can do is help Kyle’s pain, he can’t stay to watch this.

Not when they’ve lost so many already. And especially not when he’s covered in the blood of a young friend who won’t last the night.

Sturges makes his way to the upper level of the church, stopping a time or two among the Minutemen to fix a jammed gun, give a hand to pop a shoulder back into place. Though that’s not where he lingers. Slowly he climbs the spiral steps of the steeple, pulling himself up to sit at the ledge at the top, next to a tired Lieutenant. 

In silence, Preston sits. Scanning the horizon through a scope that he’s wrenched off of a pipe rifle that he found when they first got to the Plain. No sign of Gunners yet, but the sight of ghouls littered through the ruins makes him keep a hand on his musket. Not that he’d fire a shot unless he had to--ammo is scarce and he knows better than most that the sound of a musket will drive ghouls to them rather than away from. 

Without a word, Sturges reaches for the hand Preston holds the scope up to his eye with. Gently brings it down and takes it from him, instead replacing it with jerky he’s been handed by Fenton. “Do me a favor and eat that, will you?”

Preston opens his mouth to argue, but instead Sturges turns from him and takes up the watch himself. There’s not much to argue about, and Preston manages to eat in silence, hands quaking out of nerves and hunger both. Neither of them can remember the last time either one of them slept--it’s been days now for both of them. 

“We should move at dawn.” It takes him a few minutes to finish eating and regain a more steady tone to his voice, but he does. He doesn’t feel better, per se, but less like he’s about to pass out. “We’re too close to Quincy, if the Gunners regroup, we--.” With a low sigh, he trails off. 

“Agreed,” mutters Sturges as he lowers the scope, turning to look at Preston. The man looks damned shaken, as much as any of the civilian survivors. Betrayal will do that to a man. Slowly, Preston raises his hands to drag his hat off of his head, sitting it on his lap while he takes a moment to breathe. 

Even that much is hard. 

This isn’t any easier than watching the Longs, but Sturges is nothing if not a rock when he wants to be. One of his more notable qualities, he’s sure, and it’s much easier to be so to just one person rather than all the Quincy survivors at once. “Hey, boss...”

Preston starts to glance up as a calloused hand slides over his shoulder to the back of his neck, tilting him forward. There’s a warm forehead against his own and damned if it isn’t welcome. He takes a moment to exhale, closing his eyes as Sturges holds him in place. They can spare a moment of peace. “I’ll keep followin’ wherever you lead, Preston.”

* * *

A couple of hours helping Preston with the watch, and Sturges wanders back down into the church in the early hours of dawn. A quiet noise draws his attention, only to find Jun leaned against a pew, sobbing softly into his jacket, which he’s bundled against his face. Between his sorrow and Marcy’s distant gaze out a space in the boarded-up windows, Sturges knows. Doesn’t need to see the still body of their son on the pew to know that Kyle passed at some point in the night. 

Before he can even get into the church proper, Sloan intercepts him, pulling him into the lower stairwell. A plan to split off of the main group, she says. Sturges knows that Fenton’s homestead is back, past Quincy. It’s easier for the two of them to loop back, maybe get a bit of help from the southeast if they can find any. It makes sense for the two of them to head on their own, and Sloan is more than capable of protecting Fenton--she’s been doing it for years, after all.

This time, she doesn’t even protest when Sturges hugs her. In fact she doesn’t even say a word. They’ve all been through a load of shit, and it’s not over yet.

At dawn, everyone heads out. Sloan and Fenton make for University point, to loop back south to the homestead and check in on the Atom Cats on the way. Sturges hopes the Gunners weren’t stupid enough to challenge the Cats. Just the thought of losing any of his friends at the Garage puts a tightness in his chest that he just can’t shake. 

Preston leads the group west of the Plain, past a billboard concerning ‘Treasures’ that draws too many fortune-seekers each year. They all decide to stick to the roads for now, as there’s too many to lose if they head through the wilderness. It’s a plan that works well enough, lets them regroup well enough and sneak past the unpleasant surprise of Mutants bunkered in at Fallon’s. 

It’s only when they come across a well-preserved set of railroad tracks that they diverge from the road. As safe as a road, but not as well-traveled. Sturges hangs back, helping civilians and Minutemen alike up the hill to the tracks when he feels Mama tug on his sleeve. 

“Everything alright, Mama?” Sturges offers her a smile as he reaches out to gently squeeze her shoulder with one of those calloused hands of his.   


“Preston’s trying to take us to Diamond City, isn’t he?” Her voice is quiet as they move to follow the group, still hanging back a bit. Mama Murphy has been doing quite well at following the group, if not for a few stumbles. Sturges doesn’t make her keep up this time, follows along at her pace instead of his own.   


“I reckon so.” There’s a nod, and Sturges settles his arm around her shoulders. From experience, he knows that she’s always colder than she lets on. And Sturges--well, he might as well be a human-shaped furnace some days. It’s one of the reasons Mama always sticks so close to him when she can.  


“They won’t let us in,” Mama says, and it makes Sturges stop immediately. He knows that tone of her voice, knows that she’s _seen_  this with the Sight, and it almost makes his heart stop in his chest. This is exactly what they don’t need.   


“Mama...”  


“Go on, you better tell Preston before he gets his hopes up.” She reaches into the pockets of her coat, fishing out a cigarette and some matches. Her hands are more steady than any of theirs as she lights the smoke and takes a draft of it. A gift of the Sight, maybe. A certainty that doesn’t rattle her like it does everyone else. “Tell him--tell him we should go north. The tracks will lead us on our journey.”  


This time, he doesn’t stick around and wait for her to elaborate--just jogs ahead to catch the Lieutenant’s attention.

* * *

Yet again, Mama Murphy is right. 

The survivors aren’t allowed so much as a foot into Diamond City. Too big of a risk, they’re told. Too many refugees for the Wall to chance at holding. Sturges has to bodily pick up Marcy to keep her from punching out a guard as they lower the gate to the city. She’s shouting, straining against Sturges’s arms as the gate slams against the Wall, but he holds firm. 

Once there’s nothing to hold her back from, he sets Marcy back on her feet, only to get a punch to the jaw in retaliation a second later. The surprise staggers him, and Sturges takes a step back--a hand to his jaw, which is sore and surprisingly slick with a bit of blood--glancing up to find Marcy facing him with balled fists. The shouting is done, but she’s pulling back for another punch by the time Jun intercepts her and leads her off to the side to cool down.

Sturges doesn’t blame her. 

In fact, he blames himself. And the blood still stained to the front of his clothes.

At the very least, the group is allowed to trade with the caravans lingering outside of Diamond City. More ammunition, food, medicine. Mama pulls a stash of caps out of her hat and thinks that no one notices when she cashes them in for some chems. Sturges notices, but then again he always has. It’s growing dark by the time the guards start ushering them away, and the lot of them follow along the side of the Turnpike to get back to the railroad they’d been traveling along. 

It’s a day’s delay by the time they reach the tracks. 

A full day out of their way, to Diamond City only to be turned back. Marcy is so mad that she’s beyond screaming. Only Jun braves close enough to bring her food that evening as they all settle into a collection of abandoned railcars just west of the Pike Tunnel.

Tonight, some of the other Minutemen take up watch and let their fearless leader rest. Still at least a dozen Minutemen to nearly as many civilians and they have to actively convince Preston to take a rest. In the end, it’s Sturges that he listens to. “Can’t protect us if you don’t protect yourself.”

Preston chooses the railcar farthest south--to listen for any Gunners coming up from Quincy, he says. Still not resting. Once the other civilians have settled, Mama in particular while she waits for her Sight, Sturges grabs enough rations for Preston and sets off south to make sure he gets something to eat. By the time Sturges spots him, Preston is sitting on the open side of his railcar, feet dangling off the edge. That hat of his sits to the side while he tinkers with his musket. Sturges’s footsteps must be starting to sound familiar, because he doesn’t even look up when the mechanic approaches.

“Here you go,” Sturges gives a grin as he hands dinner up to Preston. He expects the Minuteman to only pick at what he’s been given, to not be interested, but he actually takes to the food quite well. Maybe Sturges’ words had really gotten through to him.  


The taller man plops his duffle bag up onto the railcar and hoists himself up as well. He hadn’t picked a spot to roll out his sleeping bag as of yet for the night, but he doubts that Preston would voice complaint if they were to share a railcar. It isn’t bad once he’s standing inside it--a bit smaller on the inside than the others, but not bad. Definitely enough room for the two of them, if they don’t mind being too close to each other.

“Sturges,” Preston turns, pulling his feet up with him so he can face his newfound friend. The mechanic is rolling out his sleeping bag, setting duffle to the side with a loud thunk. It makes Preston wonder just how heavy the thing is--or, more importantly, just how Sturges manages to lug something like that all over the Commonwealth without breaking a sweat. How’d this guy end up being just a mechanic, again?  


“Yeah, boss?” Sturges plops down onto the bedroll, somehow relaxed in all of this. It brings a small smile to the Minuteman’s lips, and he reaches up to pull the railcar’s door shut behind them both, now that darkness has settled in completely. He’s already got a lantern lit and sat to the side, and he makes to undo his own bedroll and lay it out on the floor of the railcar.  


“You really think I’m doing alright at--all this?” Preston asks as he smoothes the sleeping bag out next to Sturges’s. Takes the time to finally shrug out of his duster now that they’re safely closed in for the night. Though he doesn’t mean to watch as Sturges takes off his own belt--accoutrements and all. Sturges sits his accessories on top of his bag, visor included, before he turns back to Preston and replies.  


“Of course,” As though it’s the simplest answer in the world. As though they hadn’t just survived a literal massacre a week prior and were just turned away from the safest city in the Commonwealth just a few hours ago. And here is Sturges, smiling softly as Preston takes off his boots and kicks them to the side. Oh, but of course.  


“How,” Preston makes it more of a statement than a question. “Most of your friends are dead, I’m down 8 Minutemen since we left Quincy, and we can’t even find somewhere to settle. That can’t be alright.”  


Thankfully, Sturges has seen this coming since Jamaica Plains. Since he watched Preston struggle to eat anything atop the steeple lookout. Though he’s a rock for most people, he can be a bit more for Preston. At least, he hopes he can. 

“Without you, we’d all be long dead by now.” No sugar-coating it or nothing. Just the fact. Without a Lieutenant Preston Garvey to watch over them, there would be no Quincy survivors. And if there were, they certainly wouldn’t have lasted the trek from the Plains. “I may know these neighbors of mine better’n they know each other, but it’s you they’re following. Not me.”

Preston’s head tilts down as he moves to untuck his scarf from his vest. He only looks up when a pair of strong hands join his. Doing the job that he’s fumbling to do himself, Sturges sets the scarf to the side, and it’s then that Preston realizes just how close the man is to him. Close enough that he can see the flush of purple along Sturges’s jaw. Preston lifts shaking fingers to gently trace the forming bruises, leaning up for a better look, and he can feel just how warm the other man is against his touch. It’s a comforting warmth, almost radiates from him and he settles closer to him whether or not he realizes it.

Almost to encourage him, Sturges settles an arm around Preston’s waist. It doesn’t take much at all to close the few inches between them in a kiss, and there’s no telling who took that last lean. Maybe both of them did, for all they know. Preston’s eyes slide shut as he grips Sturges’s overalls with one hand, almost as though he’s afraid this, too, will slip away from him. 

Guided by a strong arm, Preston crawls into Sturges’s lap entirely. Under normal circumstances, this would be too soon for him. Preston is the sort to court for a good long while before he falls into bed with someone--but after all he and Sturges have been through in the past week? The man has been nothing but loyal to him since they first teamed up together. Kind and reassuring and Preston can’t help but to fall for all of that wrapped up in a handsome package. 

Still-quaking hands fumble with the straps on Sturges’s overalls, slipping them over his shoulders when he finally manages to get them undone. It’s not long before his own vest is being pulled off of him, and he leans back from their near-breathless kissing just long enough to pull his shirt off as well. Preston shudders as strong, warm hands slide up his back and he cups Sturges’s face with his own hands--those which grow more steady the longer he stays in the mechanic’s embrace. 

Another kiss, quick, before he pulls back and slides Sturges’s shirt off. The mechanic grins, more than Preston has seen in the past few days, and dips his head in to mouth against the side of the Minuteman’s neck, all lips and teeth as he manages to elicit a low moan from Preston for his efforts. 

So focused is he on leaving a mark on that beautiful dark skin that Sturges barely notices as his overalls are pushed down entirely. The hands of a marksman slip beneath overalls and briefs, taking his half-aroused cock in hand, and Sturges groans against Preston’s throat, trying his damnedest to not buck up against that grip. Instead, he pops open the button on Preston’s trousers to wrap a calloused hand around the man’s flesh in turn. 

For the life of him, Sturges wishes he would’ve picked up a bottle of lubricant from the traders outside Diamond City--but this will do, for now. A large hand on Preston’s ass pulls them closer together, lets them rut together with both of their hands stroking their erections where they’re pressed together. Preston rolls his hips towards Sturges with a needy whine, biting at the mechanic’s lower lip. 

It’s not long before he comes, moaning against the other man’s mouth. In fact, he’s still pressed against Sturges’s thick cock as the man follows in orgasm, a strong hand squeezing Preston’s ass.

At least, that night, they manage a few hours of much-needed rest. 

* * *

Morning wakes them, not with gunfire this time, but by the sun peeking through a few rusted-out spots in the railcar’s roof. Preston is nestled against Sturges’s broad chest, fingertips tracing up toward his collarbone and further, to a chin that’s gone a bit long without a proper shave. 

Come to think of it, he could use one himself. 

“Mornin’, handsome.” Sturges’s accent is thicker with tiredness, and he leans up just enough to kiss Preston on the forehead, rough fingers stroking along the man’s shoulders. With all they’ve been through, this is the closest he’s had to peace since everything went to hell in a handbasket.  


Just for the morning, they can lie there, with sunlight peeking down at them, and their limbs tangled together, and forget the past week. Right now is about them.

* * *

The group’s forward scout is returning by the time that Preston and Sturges are both dressed and reuniting with the rest of the refugees. Lexington is safe, they say. Just past Corvega and clear of raiders or mutants. 

 _Safe_. 

That’s a novel idea. Preston gathers everyone together, takes a solid vote, and spirits lift just enough to make the final push to Lexington one of lighter steps instead of the run-down trudging of the past week. 

Some take note of the warm glow around Preston’s edges. Of a smile that comes easier for him and the glances he makes more often toward the back of the group, where Sturges shepherds Mama along so she doesn’t lag too far behind the others. 

And Sturges smiles back, even as Mama tells him that Lexington isn’t quite the Sanctuary they’re looking for.


End file.
